S.B.T. 97

string players who would do something like play a bach score using different notes than were written just because they like the sound could play this. also hopefully the viola and the violin can read their parts in the chord and still get along.



a child walking alone on the mountain
just outside of pont-de-luc october
carrying a bag w/old shoes and wax letters
bends to pick a golden wish flower

swish a sound

a centaur emerged from brambles leading a pack of dogs
brushing his forehead and smiles
they speak in romanie language
come dance with us
vino cu noi de dans
they dance until
stillness
in the meadow
comes rising

nightfingers reach and wrap around
the handle
the overhead door
whispers softly and closes
şopot uşa încet şi se închide

an envelope folding in woodlands falling
arpeggio shadows asleep in starlight
fair winds twirl over all there is to know
how faerietears fall to the ground
to startle the cricket
and sweeten the roses

xxx

S.B.T. 96

harmony and rhythm come natural to ears because cochlea pick up on heartbeat
bloodsurge waves and tides inside out deamplfied to a kind of humming. no place like home why not revert back to the inner ear liquid and slosh thump
thump sound made out of water. the electro snapparattus eye bleeps and sparks according to whatever forces flow to and float synapses between invisiblue trees, even with utmost discipline in place. in space smooth rhumba feels good doctor, deep regular thumping and/or harmonic fifths especially. (the rhumba was what they came for - close encounters of the 3rd kind) major or minor works if there is a beat to follow. go on dance with the gypsies tonight. oh it is searing red flickers offah fire for sure and lines made by light on the water form 'C's & seas and seize and sees...this is like being put to sleep some kind of babydoll sleeping potion. yeah the rhythm takes over and suddenly im inna diffrent place brainwavewise. oh yeah that song feels good and while it lasts im gonna sssstick with it. but then, theres an glazy lullaby aspect oh what is that thing, that independent isolated flame on the tip of the parched twig, that being, that you in there. off off well it turns something over too, like dirt hurled from a ditch cutting a groove thing, but the gypsy pants are being washed because of a wine red punchstain on the backbeat. theres no usual rhythm here. hmm must be the moon.

S.B.T. 92

imo jesse winchester is a great songwriter. a balladmaster like stephen foster.
much less celebrated here perhaps because of the years in canada in the 70’s he flew away just before the draft carried him to s.e.asia with no time for conscientious objecting. he wrote some beautiful songs there. i wave bye bye and wander my way home by jesse winchester


relax your eyes to listen

though he was most known for his songs set in the south a century and a half ago, stephen foster lived most of his life in a small town in pennsylvania. he made just one journey to the south in his lifetime, and that was on his honeymoon trip. he wrote his very last song ‘beautiful dreamer’ in 1864 just a few days before he died in poverty with only thirty eight cents in his pocket.
in the 1930’s film ‘harmony lane’ foster sells all rights to it for 25 dollars cash.

and roy orbison
and while you are there check out the beatles rare rock version

xxx

S.B.T. 88

wait a minute, it must be true, those madison avenue guys started the whole thing(if you try this link and an ad comes up just click on 'skip this ad' to get to the free streaming full episode list of 'mad men'). playtex, american airlines, upscale department stores, just plain shots of single malt lunches, looks like fun. powerful fun.

i remember a professor of art history saying ‘the medicis are on madison avenue these days’ it was just after the NEA cut off grant funding to individual artists, gone in a wink an era of support for the arts. ahem, has anyone seen the orphan act these days? hello...

i was visiting a friend yesterday, she has to do several different kinds of art in several what most would see as ‘unrelated’ mediums or art forms ha ha that really gets me into hysterics to make a *good* living. she does cartoons, pages in a magazine, writes articles, makes jewelry, paints furniture, murals, paintings, publishes her own calendars, posters, greeting cards, sews unusual fascinating ‘bags’ that sell in boutique shops, just to name a few. a 24/7 full overtime occupation. i asked her, "what would you do if you had to choose only one of these mediums?" it didnt take a second for her to answer but i wont reveal what the answer is.

then she asked me. i had to think about it. lets see, the lesser of two or multiple evils ha ha, what would that be? seeing as i started my art ca-career (thanks Pat) before the age of five, and it was multidisciplinary from the getgo, i never thought it would be neccessary to choose just one but oh there is an indominate dictum somewhere that quite literally demands a cutoff point. which is the more of good and lesser of two evils? do this, or do that but whichever way, you cannot always do exactly what you must. i reiterate leondardo da vinci and how nobody ever told him to stick to drawing figures. not that i am a leonardress but to elucidate a point hold the egomaniacal kneejerk incheck

get real. thats what my biggest boss told me before i finally chose the lesser of two evils and left him to his love affair with designy commodities. the next boss seemed like the lesser of two evils but then i found out that evils are pretty much well spread around evenly. but once a precious long time ago i had a boss i really liked

i’m not ashamed anymore of being around poverty level. I get state health insurance with fed backing but. just try to find a doctor. my car is old but has four wheels and runs cause i always do the oil change thing, and we are friends. my friends worry about my future some of them. but thats because they have children or mortgages. my mother still tells me i am like the praying mantis with the fiddle, is that it? you know the wise ants and squirrels gather up food supplies for winter and this guy just fiddles all summer long. then in the winter.....well have mercy.

worry is a waste of energy. it doesnt change anything. being content with what is, the lesser of two evils.

the photograph is my father, at age seventeen, his high school grad picture. it doesnt show that he had grey eyes because of the sepiatone. he was a musician at heart but he made a living teaching industrial arts in a public high school. he always made me feel like i was born for a reason. just like diane warren dad, i love you xxx

S.B.T. 77

ranchers
a cowboy poem



in process needing reduction to discrete imagery in illustrating this poem, i had to start an idea - a spur on the bootstrap moves the horse forward and gains speed, and then a wagon wheel turning like a mandala, the old west with some mindfulness of present day (some reliance on factual material. an overload of regretful missteps transmitted in media blatancy to arouse something which has been decided as a matter of 'public policy' and the old wild west next to the big 'hills' that mark a middle a backbone with unmistakable ridges coerced a response recalling honorable methods to renew and comeliness of the folks who worked land lived with animals made peace with mother nature during a free but hardship troubled era the indian culture before the fledgling affairs of state before the buffalo became property and the ghost dance forbidden.
the voice of a prairie woman holds the air with a broad measured peace while entertains no illusion but tenderly speaks they went west and traveled in a dusty muddy grace of what is see hear feel the rocky and true, she opens the door and speaks. they worked, she said, and closes the door to go back to maybe making corn biscuits and beans
in an effort perhaps partially unresolved) to counterpoint details and maintain cattle-rock pacing, the imagery corresponds with and explores complementary space, and the forms suggest the concrete and abstract mix a kind of surreal landscape with motion happenings of a tonal kind.

she opens the door and her thoughts manifest archetypal form a language of overlapping pictures projected onto landscape and behind the children in the barn playing with mouser cats the western wind never rests and the wagon needs fillin

and here was the little outtake that was wiggled back in but then couldnt be left alone a little study piece tango dream unfinished
enjoy



xxx

S.B.T. 76

in my part of the country there are legends of seawidows and the ‘widows walk’ is a fixture atop every old harbor house an architectural testimony to vigilance and the strength of women who prayed for the ships return some perhaps enjoyed the solitude in biding time the sound of the long black skirt and the quickening blood and footsteps when at dawn the mastflag is spotted over the horizon wind engulfed in its own time not a widow yet she sighs smiling and runs to gather potatoes and pluck a chicken 'good morning barrister she waves yes the captain breaches near just over the bar we saw them clear'




between water pearls the oiled mirror bends
the rain where the pipeline darkened and dim
supersedes the horizon and takes us in

between the bearing of the sea and ledge of sky
silk streamers open in figure eight, a pattern of leaf
unravel embark the seagulls fly

between this moment and the next a silver breath an infinite peel
fog horn drawn out in fractal light
a royal flush in a shaded hand, a splay
of rope unwinds a spooling reel

the border of skin between your touch and fingertip lightly
gentles a skiff over waves and time
slips of sand and contour lines follow a gemstudded shore more fragrance of red clay and the tides moving rhyme

between this a line cast fate a blue whale calling her calf my captain
safe crossing through the shoals and the heaves rolling
to awaken and find ye in passage keep
all the gods protection hitched to the starboard
a compass rose and vigilant sleep

__________________
widows walks have long been a fascination since childhood i have had to fight to resist the urge to climb upon them and pace pace pace perhaps some residue of another life long ago xxx

S.B.T. 75

the views expressed do not necessarily
reflect those of the management
neither do they hold any conjunction
with any actual doings in area 51
or otherwhere